Until Then
by JellyfishOnACloud
Summary: Dean Winchester claws his way out of Hell with no memory and no name, his soul broken. Hell can cut the name out of anyone.


Though to his side Alastair praised every slice and stab, a little part of him still cringed every time the poor bastard on the rack screamed. Still, he liked this, it was power, more importantly, hurting meant not being hurt. He couldn't take loosing all his fingers again.

Breathe in, and the air burnt his throat. The mangled wreck on the rack screamed as he drew the blade down again.

Breathe out, the cool air from his lungs soothed the back of his teeth. Another man fell off the hooks.

A crash like thunder had him looking up. A bright light, cold, and beautiful, was headed straight for them on wings of lightning. It shouldn't be here. It didn't belong here.

From his side, Alistair hissed and ran. The light was close enough to burn, if it was heat. It wasn't. Close enough that he could touch it. A hand, it didn't look like a hand but it was, he knew that, took his.

He felt safe. That wasn't right.

Then it was pitch black and though he couldn't see, he could feel the walls close in around him. He clawed and flailed, his hands hitting solid wood above him.

The air isn't right, it doesn't burn, it feels thick, and there's not enough of it. He beats against the wood, hitting as hard as he can. He needs to get out, he knows that, feels it.

There's a crack, and suddenly he's choking on something bitter. Whatever it is it's powdery and there's so much he can barely move, pressing down on him. He struggles and digs up, not sure he's even going the right way until one hand breaks out against too cool air.

He doesn't stop until his whole body is out. His arms ache, his fingers bleed, his whole body is exhausted. It's nothing he hasn't felt before so he ignores it.

The air is still too cold.

Where was he?

Dirt. He was covered in dirt. He'd climbed out of the ground, a little wooden cross just behind the hole he'd made. The whole area around him looked like a bomb had gone off, the small forest around him was bent out in a circle.

It was a grave. The thought hit him suddenly. It was his grave.

Sam.

If there was a him there was a Sam, there had to be. But no, because Sam wasn't with him in the burning and the pain. He was glad Sam hadn't had the pain.

Who was Sam again? He knew, but he couldn't remember a face, or a voice. Just a sense of a person he needed to protect.

It didn't matter yet.

He looked around. He didn't know what to do next. He wasn't fighting, hurting anyone, or being hurt. There was no one around.

A long time ago he'd known what to do. But now, he'd have to figure it out from scratch.

He was wearing jeans and a jacket, but there was nothing in the pockets of either, the shirt didn't even have pockets.

There weren't any signs or directions, there wasn't even a road. He picked a direction and started walking.

Eventually there was a dirt road, and a building with fuel pumps outside it. A Gas Station, his mind helpfully supplied. The door was locked, so he broke a window. An alarm sounded. He found the box making the noise and ripped it off the wall.

He had to move quickly, someone would come and investigate the noise at least. He grabbed a plastic bag and started filling it with water bottles. There were little packages of food around, he grabbed the ones he vaguely recognised.

There was a cash register. Money would be required later. He opened it and took ten of each kind of bill, as well as a handful of coins. It probably wasn't enough, but he didn't want this to look like proper robbery if there were cameras.

He paused for a second, surprised he'd remembered about robberies and cameras, before reminding himself he was supposed to hurry.

Before he made it out the window, a piercing shriek rang out so loud he thought his eardrums would burst again. As it was he could feel blood trickle out where he held his hands to his ears. All the windows shattered, the lights sparked and the tv on the wall turned to static.

And then it was over.

He took off before it could happen again, plastic bag of stuff well in hand.

He didn't know how long he'd walked by the time he entered the city. Long enough that his legs ached. The first thing he noticed were the buildings, there were so many all tightly packed. The second thing was the cars, so many noisily racing along the roads like they were being timed. The third was the people.

He didn't like how many there were, or how they kept looking at him oddly. They couldn't look at him if they didn't have faces though. He pushed that thought away, he wasn't _there_ anymore, he couldn't afford to think like that. A rampage would get him mobbed anyway.

He ducked down an alleyway behind a building that claimed to cut hair. He wasn't sure what to do next. On an immediate level, he needed to figure out why people kept looking at him oddly and do something about it. On a long term scale, he should find somewhere where he could sleep safely.

He remembered a big yard full of broken rusty cars, and an old house full of books. He didn't remember where it was. He'd figure it out later.

He looked up. The sky was very blue, with white fluffy clouds just floating past peacefully. He'd forgotten what the sun felt like on his face. It was almost warm enough.

* * *

"What's your name, cutie?"

Cutie. A term of endearment used on children, loved ones, or someone found physically attractive. It meant nothing. The word was useless.

A name though, he needed one. People had names.

"Sam." He knew that wasn't his name. His name had been burned away years before he'd even picked up the knife for himself. But it was the only name he could think of, so it would have to do.

Worse was his voice, it croaked and cracked like he hadn't used it in decades, which was true. Coupled with how deep he sounded, it was vaguely frightening. Or pathetic.

It didn't seem to worry the girl though. She frowned momentarily and went right back to smiling cheerily as she took his order.

* * *

He knew the face on the other side of the door. He didn't remember the name yet but it was there, along the lines of his face, the almost beard, and the ratty cap.

Cold water splashed into this face from the canteen the man was holding. Maybe it was his imagination, but it stung a little. Probably from the cold.

He wiped it out of his eyes. "Hi Bobby," he said, his eyes starting to water all on their own.

There was more to this ritual. He felt it. He knew he was right when Bobby produced a silver knife. He held out his arm, and though he knew it was just a part of the ritual, it still felt like he was back there for half a minute, Alistair wearing Bobby's face and grinning as he screamed and screamed.

The scene shifted and he was back on the porch, Bobby, the real Bobby, had his hand on his shoulder, looking at him with an expression he couldn't really identify, but knew he didn't deserve.

Wordlessly, Bobby moved in and wrapped his arms around him, and he melted into the gentle touch. Emotions he couldn't even name washed over him, and it was too much to bear.

Bobby rubbed his back while he cried, "It's all right boy, you're home, you're safe. It's all right."

He nodded against Bobby's shoulder. He really did feel the safest he had in decades. It was nice. Maybe he wouldn't have to let go.

He did eventually let go, though he clung to Bobby's shirt and arms whenever he could, just trying to soak up the touch of someone not trying to hurt him. For whatever reason, Bobby let him, and he was grateful.

"How?" Bobby asked, after he'd sat him down on a big ratty and very comfortable couch. He didn't elaborate, but then he really didn't need to.

"I don't really know. There was a light, but not a light. A creature of some kind maybe? It didn't belong there. Anyway it took my hand, and then I woke up in- well I guess in my coffin."

He looked down again. Something in Bobby's eyes was like a punch in the gut.

"I got out really quick though. I'm fine," he said, wanting to sooth whatever Bobby was feeling.

"I know. You're safe now, boy," he replied, searching his face.

Bobby also made him several sandwiches, considering that all he had eaten was three packets of crispy potato and a pack of something called 'M&M's' in three days, he couldn't thank Bobby enough, not that he really knew how to. After several minutes of inarticulate stumbling and stuttering, Bobby just said not to worry about it. He frowned at that, but relented, assuming Bobby knew what he meant anyway.

"Bobby?" he asked, after they were settling down in the section with all the books.

"Yeah?" Bobby replied, looking up. Bobby searched his face, again. He was beginning to think he had something on it.

"What's-" he paused. He didn't want to have to ask this. Everyone knew this, every _person_ knew. Maybe it was part of not being a person that he didn't know, but he did once and he needed to again. "What's my name?"

Bobby's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut again, his eyes turned soft and watery, then hard as his mouth pinched and his eyebrows furrowed. "Your name's Dean Winchester."

"Dean," he repeated, seeing how it felt on his tongue. It didn't ring any bells. There was another name though. "Who's Sam? I know the name, I know I'm supposed to protect them but I don't- I don't remember."

He knew, he _knew_. It was on the tip of his tongue, like a shadow in his brain. He couldn't grab it.

Bobby swallowed, looking a little broken, and very sad. "Sam's your brother," he said. Bobby said more but he didn't hear it, because he was drowning in memories of a floppy haired boy with big brown eyes who smiled up at him like he put the sun in the sky. Of course he knew who Sam was, of _course_ he did, how could he ever forget really? Sammy was the absurdly tall boy with big brown eyes and a pouty frown who loved books and learning and got way too excited about things that weren't that exciting.

"You remember," Bobby said, certain and relieved.

"Where is he, Bobby?" Dean asked, an itch growing at the back of his skull, along with a sense of dread.

"I don't know. He dropped off the radar two months after you, then nothing. Not for months. I searched I really did, but that boy does not want to be found."

* * *

Tracking feels like Hunting. Its not tearing flesh in the warmth of screaming flames, but somehow it feels like home anyway. It takes a long time, too long, and he has forgotten too much, but they do find him.

In a dingy hotel room surrounded by wards and smelling of salt. He doesn't need to ask the manager which room his brother is staying in, he can feel it. The wave of repulsion surrounding the protected room, the burn of purifying salt.

He follows the wards through the building, stopping at the door of the room where the salt-line breaks. He knocks, swallowing nervously even with Bobby right behind him.

And there he is.

Sam.

* * *

"Sam, I have one question."

"Yeah, Dean, anything."

"Why are you in a hotel room with a demon?"

Sam froze for a split second, confirming what he already knew.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam said, like Dean couldn't smell the sulphur on that girl before he'd even opened the door.

"Fine. When she tries to steal your soul don't come crying to me."

"Oh come on Dean, Ruby-"

"Ruby is a demon, Sam! Demons are soul stealing, vicious, manipulative, lying, monsters! Even if they love you they still want to rip your face off and laugh! It's just what we are!"

There was silence for a moment, before Sam said quietly, "We?"

"Not literally, boy," said Bobby before Dean could reply, "I tested him first thing."

It was probably a good thing Bobby interrupted him because he could almost feel his blood boiling and his fists and teeth clenching. And though he could never hurt Sam, someone was going to get hurt if he didn't calm down.

Except he could hurt Sam, he'd done it before. It was easy really. Sometimes the little bastard even deserved it, whispered a little voice that sounded a lot like Alistair.

He bolted out of the room, running down the stairs two at a time, not stopping till he felt the cold night air on his face.

He heard Sam walk out behind him after a minute. Probably thought he was being quiet.

"So, did you get a deal out of her?" he asked.

"No. I tried to get you out but, no one would deal," Sam replied.

"Good. If I go again, upstairs or down doesn't matter, don't deal for me." He couldn't handle it if Sam had to suffer what he did. Because then, he'd have failed, and he'd have to hear his brother scream forever.

"Dean-" Sam started.

"No, Sam. I don't care. You're worth more than I am." And there was the issue they'd been dancing around for decades. He'd always thought it true, but maybe it wasn't, before. It definitely was now.

"Dean, listen to me. You are worth it, okay? If I was worth it so are you."

Dean looked back out at the street. "Not anymore I'm not. But that's okay, I can still protect you. That's what I'm for, isn't it?"

He walked away before Sam could reply. Maybe Sam would follow. Maybe Sam would understand. Probably not though, and for the best, really. If he thought about it. Better that Sammy keep his name, like Dean had kept it all those years through the burning.

Maybe one day, he'd have his own name again. Until then, he could walk the streets in the too cold air and try to remember what it was like to be a person.


End file.
